Death Among the Doilies (4 page)

“What's wrong, Mommy?” London said, after Jane buckled her into her car seat.

“Nothing, other than it's seven-thirty am and you know I how feel about that,” Jane said, trying to keep it light. She didn't want to worry London. The child had had enough worries in her five years of life.

“I know,” London said. “I know you hate being up this early.”

Jane leaned in and kissed her daughter—one of the few people who mattered to her in this world. She was bound and determined to give her a good life—inasmuch as any mother could.

Last night, she had been hopeful that Cashel had tamped out any negative effects from this murder suspect business. But the phone call from the school principal led her to believe otherwise.

She pulled out of the driveway and turned onto the street, then flipped the radio on and London started to sing. Jane only half listened.

“I like this song, Mommy,” London said.

“I do, too, sweetie.” Light and breezy. When she arrived back at the carriage house, she'd have a good cry and then head to the main house to help unpack the boxes.

She felt in her gut that the principal didn't want her help this week because somehow word had already spread. But how?

Schools had to be careful these days, and as a parent, Jane appreciated that. But as a person working in the schools, she thought it might be overkill.

But she wasn't even working—she was volunteering. Still, they did not want a murder suspect volunteering in the schools. They were leaping to conclusions and not even giving her a chance to defend herself. Was anybody even asking why she would want to kill Sarah Waters?

She sifted through her memories of the late school librarian. She had been sixty-ish and seemed nice enough, but was not someone Jane warmed up to. In fact, if she were to be honest, Jane didn't warm up to many people. But Sarah had been a bit stand-offish. Or maybe she was just quiet. Jane hadn't bothered to find out. As a volunteer in the school, she was kept busy cleaning desks and floors, sorting activities, and lining children up for bathroom breaks, which didn't leave much time to socialize.

“Miss Teal is so pretty,” London said from the backseat, as they pulled up into the line of cars at the school. “Today, we're going to talk about the pilgrims and Native Americans.”

“That sounds like fun,” Jane said, wondering exactly what they would be teaching London about Native Americans. Jane had been told her biological mother was part Cherokee. She'd always had this romantic notion she might have been a potter, like Jane. But her adoption records were sealed. Even if they weren't, she wasn't certain she could bring herself to open that door. Her mother had given her up for a reason.

The car in front of her pulled up in the line, and she followed.

“You'll have to tell me all about it when you get home,” Jane said. She loved this part of parenting, the talking about new things together. Her daughter's mind fascinated her. That she had created this kid with Neil floored her. He was such a loser, but their kid was amazing.

“Tell me the story about my name, Mommy,” London said.

“It's almost our turn, London. I'll tell you later,” Jane said, trying to concentrate on not hitting one of the many teacher's aides and teachers flitting around from car to car to fetch the children. No matter how orderly, the drop-off always made Jane nervous. So much could go wrong.

London wanted the story of her name repeated every day. A few times every day. Repetition seemed to comfort her. Jane would do anything for her daughter, of course, but the repetition of the same stories sometimes made her want to scream. She could recite them backward and forward now.

The story of London's name was also not something Jane necessarily wanted to think about. London was named after the city she had been conceived and born in. The city where Jane and Neil lived for a few years until everything turned sour. London had been the happiest place on earth, but then it became a nightmare of a city, as Neil began to show signs of unhappiness and violent tendencies. Jane thought it was depression and maybe a change of scenery might help. The first few months in New York City were blissful before his drug habit took over. He became violent and almost unrecognizable. She tried so hard to find him help. The few times he was clean gave her and London hope. They had some good times, but they always spun into dark times. Unfortunately, her own little London carried memories of both the good and bad times within her.

They were next in line, and Jane pulled up to the curb, put the car in park, and slid out. She opened the back door and unhooked London from her car seat.

“Do you have everything?” she asked.

London nodded. Jane quickly kissed her as an aide came to fetch the child and take her into the school.

“Good morning,” Jane said to the same woman she'd seen every day for weeks. She said it automatically, politely; it was what you did when an aide collected your daughter.

Jane listened for the response, which usually came quickly and with a smile.

This time the woman only turned and glared at her before walking off, holding London's hand.

A chill came over Jane. Time seemed to hold her in place. Somehow, word must have leaked that she was a person of interest in the murder of Sarah Waters. She knew it.

The person in the car behind her gently tooted their horn, bringing her back to earth.

“Sorry,” she mouthed, waving before she got into the car.

As she pulled away from the school, she no longer wanted to go home and cry; she wanted to scream at someone. But who?

She thought about Cora and the craft retreat, their months of hard work getting the house up to code and beyond, and Cora sinking her retirement funds and her savings into the business, plus her investors' money. It was a good plan. A solid foundation. Craft retreats were popular. Cora's blog earned money and had a growing following. Jane's pottery sold well. Everything was coming together.

Now this. Could this be the unraveling of all of it?

What to do? Should she go to Cora with her worries? Or wait until she knew for sure what was going on?

She rarely kept things from Cora. But Cora was such a nervous wreck these days with the first retreat on the horizon. Jane hated to add to her woes until she knew exactly what was happening.

Her mind settled. She decided there was no point in going to Cora with nothing but a strong inkling that word had leaked out in their new small town. At least not yet.

When all was said and done, the boxes were twice the size of the broom straw, all wrapped neatly in rows underneath a ridiculous amount of packing peanuts.

“Check this out!” Jane gasped, holding up some crimson broom straw. “Isn't it gorgeous?”

Cora grinned. Fresh crafting materials, plus the happy note in Jane's voice, added to her air of excitement.

Jane had been brooding since she received the phone call that morning, and she and Cora hadn't been left alone long enough for them to discuss it. What was it about the call Jane found so disturbing that it sent her into a funk for the rest of the morning?

“I like the eggplant color,” Ruby said, waving straw from the box she was unpacking. “Stunning. Oh, and the crimson. Gone are the days of plain broom straw, I suppose.”

“The brooms will be amazing,” Cora said. She began to set baskets in a row along the wall of the main crafting hall, a wing added on to the house in 1912 and filled with floor-to-ceiling windows. Twelve women had signed up for the broom-making class—not including the three of them. Each person would get broom straw, a handle, and the tools to make their brooms. It would all be given to them in baskets made by a local basket maker. Cora had been thrilled to find out that this region of North Carolina offered a multitude of crafters.

This part of the state had a rich heritage of Appalachian craft traditions, and the quality of techniques had stayed the same throughout the years. They were handed down from elder to younger crafter, which was the best way to learn. Some of these crafters launched art careers by taking their crafting to the next level. Many of them could be found in galleries in Asheville.

The hills around Indigo Gap appeared to be scattered with older women, like Ruby, who were “wild-crafters,” or herbalists. Many of these women quilted, sewed, and crocheted just as a matter of course. But they had as much pride in their workmanship as the professional artist-crafters.

“You know,” Ruby said. “There's nothing like a well-made broom.” She flipped her fingers through the colorful broom straw. “I inherited one of my mother's. It's in good shape, too. I'm not sure they make brooms that well anymore.”

“Well, Jude Sawyer does,” Cora said, starting to place straw in each of the baskets.

“Oh yes, don't I know it. So does his daddy,” Ruby said.

“I hate housekeeping,” Jane said, after a moment. “But I don't mind sweeping. There's something, I don't know, meditative, about it.”

“I agree. But for me, it's more than that, really,” Ruby said, pulling out more straw from her box. “You can sweep away negative energy with them.”

“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” Cora said.

Ruby harrumphed. “You can call it whatever you want, honey.”

“In any case, it's a great craft for our fall retreat, with Halloween right around the corner,” Cora said.

“And the candles will be just the right touch,” Jane added. “Oh damn, paper cut. Where are the Band-Aids?” She held up her bloody finger.

“In the downstairs bathroom medicine cabinet,” Cora said.

“Come by my cottage later. My homemade herbal salve will soothe it,” Ruby said as Jane walked off to find a Band-Aid.

Cora stood back and surveyed the filled baskets. “They should be a bit more festive,” she muttered. “What else can we do to them? Ribbons? Paper flowers?”

“I don't know,” Ruby said, coming up beside her, her hands on her hips. “I like them the way they are. Earthy and simple.”

“Good point,” Cora said, as her cell phone rang. She took a step away from Ruby as she answered the call. “Cora here, how can I help you?”

“This is Isabel Collins. Is it too late for me to cancel my registration for the broom-making class?”

“Cancel?”

“Yes. Is it too late? I'd like a refund.”

Cora looked around at her baskets and sighed. “Certainly, I'll issue a refund. May I ask why you're canceling?”

“I have better things to do with my money,” the other woman said in a clipped tone. And she hung up.

“What was that about?” Cora said more to herself than to Ruby, who was busy breaking down the boxes the broom straw had come in.

“What's that?” Ruby asked.

“A cancelation. Isabel Collins,” Cora said, searching her cell phone for the app that would issue the refund immediately. She loved the convenience of running certain parts of her business from her phone. No clunky cash registers or receipts. It was as green and as convenient as it could get.

“Humph,” Ruby said. “Good riddance to bad trash.”

“What? She seemed nice enough to me. That is until . . . ”

“Until what?”

“She said she has better things to do with her money. She was kind of, I don't know, cocky about it.” Normally Cora hated to make snap judgments and tried not to. “Odd. She was so lovely the other day. And so enthusiastic.”

Ruby made a singsong sigh sounding like “oh well.” But then she said, “Maybe she was drunk.”

“Who?” Jane said as she walked in. “Who is drunk?”

“Isabel Collins canceled and she was kind of rude about it,” Cora said, ignoring Jane's question for the moment.

“What? That sweet lady?” Jane said.

“That sweet lady you're talking about is a drunk and I've seen her trash-talking a grown man to tears,” Ruby said and smacked her hands together to brush off whatever dirt or dust the broom straw had left behind.

Jane's eyes widened as she looked at Ruby in surprise. “Really?”

Jane and Cora giggled at the thought of Isabel Collins being drunk, let alone trash-talking anybody.

“I just can't believe it,” Cora said, still giggling. “I guess this town is full of surprises.”

“Stick with me, kid, and I'll fill you in on everything,” Ruby said.

Cora knew this was true. Ruby was a valuable asset to them, once you got past the gruff exterior. Cora and Jane glanced at one another, and Cora refrained from rolling her eyes.

“The baskets look great,” Jane said, changing the subject. Jane did not like to gossip. She'd been the butt of mean-spirited gossip far too often. “Do you think they need a little something? How about some little shiny bags full of candy? Halloween is right around the corner.”

Ruby shook her head and laughed.

“What's so funny?” Jane asked.

“We just discussed the baskets,” Cora said. “Wondering about ribbons and paper flowers. Ruby likes them just the way they are. I agreed.”

“What?” Jane looked incredulous.

Cora nodded. “It's more elegant this way. So simple, you know?”

“Whatever happened to glitter girl?” Jane grinned.

Cora started to answer. It was a stage she had gone through—every bit of her paper crafts used glitter for a few months. She was admittedly taken by glitter and all things sparkly.

“Let's hope glitter girl is gone and buried,” Ruby said and then left the room.

“What's the big deal?” Cora said to Jane. “A little glitter never killed anybody.”